


Lo Fi Charm

by HeartlessMemo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Crushes, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Relationship, Smut, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:07:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29821917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartlessMemo/pseuds/HeartlessMemo
Summary: "The first couple of times Martin falls asleep listening to Jon’s voice it happens entirely by coincidence. He swears he never intended..."Martin gets off to the sound of Jon's voice on tape.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57





	Lo Fi Charm

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for clicking on this fic and I hope you enjoy it! Your comments and kudos are so encouraging and very much appreciated!
> 
> Timeline: Just a quick note. I left the setting of this fic within the show's timeline intentionally vague. That's because I have a friend who's still listening to earlier episodes and I wanted him to be able to read it XD.

The first couple of times Martin falls asleep listening to Jon’s voice it happens entirely by coincidence. He takes home a few statements to study for a case. He’s been pulling long hours in the office and even longer hours at home, up past midnight sitting at his rickety desk, desperate to impress the new head archivist. When his eyelids start to droop, Martin allows himself to be swept away on the waves of Jon’s sharp, crackling syllables and chilly tone.

And he dreams. He dreams of a penetrating, dark brown gaze that seems to see inside of him, into the dusty, dark corners of himself. At first, Martin fears whatever judgement is sure to form in those fathomless irises. But then a light sparks to life inside of them. It’s as if a torch is shone on Martin’s soul. Jon’s voice is there and not there. Speaking Martin’s name. Telling him he’s good enough. Telling him he’s  _ more _ than good enough.

And then… well, who could blame him? No one ever misses the recordings. Martin takes to arriving early at the office, reshelving the tapes before his coworkers walk through the door. There’s something soothing, comforting in Jon’s voice. It keeps at bay the specter of Jane Prentiss that still occasionally haunts Martin’s dreams, knocking, knocking, always knocking to come inside. And if it doesn’t exactly  _ lessen _ his growing affection for his curmudgeonly, adorably chaotic boss… Well, it’s not hurting anyone, at least.

The tapes keep him company as he drifts to sleep in the long, lonely nighttime. Martin swears he never intended… 

One night, months after he starts pilfering tapes, Martin lies in bed listening to a statement. But something about tonight is different. He’s not being tugged below the surface of consciousness, embraced by the syrupy flow of pleasant dreams. Instead he feels… warm and restless. He shifts and tosses on the mattress, tangling his legs in the sheets as he attempts to ignore the buzzing urgency building beneath his skin. And all along Jon’s voice speaks to him. Low, hypnotic…  _ sexy _ . Martin blushes at his own thoughts. As if Jon might manifest through the tape recorder and scold him for his insolence.

Finally, his hands move of their own volition. They curve over the generous expanse of his round belly and plunge beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs, cupping his genitals as Jon’s deep voice forms the curt syllables of his name.  _ Martin _ .

_ Oh. _ Oh this is… a bit bad, isn’t it? But Martin is alone. All alone in his quiet little bedroom and Jon won’t ever know.

_...I don’t count Martin as he’s unlikely to contribute anything but delays... _

_ Oh, Jon. _ Martin barely absorbs the acerbic intent behind the words. He wraps stout fingers around his gradually hardening shaft, stroking the sensitive flesh with a feather-light touch that draws a sharp inhale through his delicate, parted lips. Martin’s gentle, broken breathing mingles with the crackle of static and Jon’s low-pitched voice.

“Jon,” he whispers, throat bobbing as he swallows down a loud moan. He raises his hips off the mattress, arching his back slightly as he thrusts into his own fist. God, what would it be like if it were Jon’s slender fingers enveloping him? The very thought sends a shock of lust down his length, coiling in his pelvis and tightening his balls. Martin lets his legs fall open, softening into the mattress as he lazily reaches his free hand between them to cup and tease his heavy sack. “Oh, please, Jon!”

He rubs the soft pad of his thumb over his weeping slit, smearing a bead of precum as he strokes downward and then up again. The languid rhythm plucks at his tightly wound arousal without granting release. Martin writhes under his own too-light touch, tension ebbing and flowing within him until he’s reduced to soft, panting cries and abortive thrusts of his hips. He wants to tighten his fist and jerk himself off at once. He wants to drag it out forever, lost in the cozy realm of Jon’s deep, sensual voice and the soft whirring of the tape recorder.

His palm grazes over his balls as he reaches down to stroke the impossibly tender skin of his perineum. The added stimulation causes his cock to judder in his grip. “F-uu-uck!” he hisses before biting into his plump lower lip and frantically smothering a shrill moan. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Jon!”

Martin doesn’t think he can last much longer. His thick forearms strain the waist of his underpants as he strokes and pumps between his legs. Something about keeping his pants on, with the promise of soiling them when he finally cums, fills him with a sharp, insistent arousal. The fact that he can feel Jon’s presence, his judgement, along with the sound of his voice, only adds to the feeling: mingling lust with potent shame.

“Oh, please— oh, please— oh, please!” Martin gasps. He’d like to claim ignorance as to what he is begging for and from whom, but he’s never been one for lying to himself. Martin loves Jon. Has done for ages. All Martin wants is for Jon to see him the way that  _ he _ sees  _ Jon _ .

He pictures it in his mind’s eye. Jon’s lithe form stretched out beside him on the bed. He’s in only his vest and underwear so that Martin can enjoy the sight of his gangly, lean limbs and warm brown skin. Jon’s dark eyes fixate on Martin’s squirming body. He misses nothing. The way Martin’s chest rises and falls with every ragged breath, soft curves straining against his thin nightshirt. The bobbing of his throat as he swallows. The breathy squeaks and soft, plaintive moans as he nears his climax. All of it laid bare for Jon’s devouring gaze.

Martin finally lets go, frantically pumping his fist over his twitching, aching erection as he teases his entrance with a single probing finger. His eyelids flutter and his eyes roll back. A quiet, keening sob tears from his throat. The initial intensity of the orgasm takes him away for a moment. He floats in space, suspended over himself and wrapped up in a warm, soft blanket of Jon’s soothing voice. He watches himself: mouth twisted into a strained grimace as waves of pleasure pound into him. Only the whites of his eyes are visible through thin slits as he writhes and gasps. 

A second later, Martin is back on the bed, feeling pulsing ropes of cum shoot over his fist and coat the inside of his underwear. He loosens his grip on his softening penis, leaving his hands resting gently between his legs as he comes down from the high, heart racing and breath catching in his throat. Vaguely he hears Jon’s voice as if from a great distance.

_ End Recording. _

Click.

Silence. 

Martin listens to the sound of his own breathing, sharp, broken and then, gradually, smoothing out into placid inhales and exhales. His heartbeat slows from a hammering frenzy to a steady, solid metronome. He should clean himself up before bed. He should at least rewind the tape. But his eyelids are getting heavy and the bed is so comfortable. Wrung out and exhausted, Martin falls asleep. The echo of Jon’s voice still rings in his ears, combining with his own measured, comforting heartbeat. He hears his own name, drawn out in a breathy whisper that tickles the hairs on the back of his neck. In his dream he imagines it’s real.

_ Martin. _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
